


Your Unlikely Hero

by Skalidra



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biting, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, M/M, Restraints, Space Pirates, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2018-11-03 23:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10978014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Shiro's flight from the Galra came up short; his shuttle picked up by a pirate ship long before he got close to Earth. Years later, when the Galra do make it to Earth anyway, Keith is one of four humans to find the Blue Lion and escape, destined to be Paladins. Allura makes a fifth. After being spit out of the destabilized wormhole and crash-landing, courtesy of Zarkon, Keith runs into that very same pirate ship, and its very familiar human captain. But Shiro is a long ways from what Keith remembers, and a whole lot less selfless.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! So this is a Voltron piece I thought of a while back, that I have the first two chapters for. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)

Keith's unconscious by the time his lion slams into the planet, which is probably a good thing. He comes awake strapped into his seat, head and arms hanging to the side. He's groggy, aching, and gropes upwards for the release to the straps. There doesn't seem to be one, but they come loose anyway.

In retrospect, doing it before he knew which direction he was falling — down and to the side, to smack into the fuzzing-out view-screen and the console beneath it — was a bad idea. It takes his breath for a second, before he manages to roll and stagger his way up to a diagonal angle, holding onto the arm of the chair to keep himself stable. His head aches, and he pulls the helmet off so he can rub at his temples before he turns his attention to the lion.

The view-screens are only displaying static, and the lights are all off except for a dull red glow that seems to be faintly blinking. Emergency lights.

He steps closer to the front of the lion, reaching out to wiggle at some of the controls. Nothing responds. "Come on," he mutters, poking at them some more. "Come on, Red."

The lion is silent in his head in a way it hasn't been since the start of all this, since he first got in the lion and it purred in his head and he felt finally _connected_ for the first time in years. He grits his teeth — his head aches at it but he ignores that — and smacks a palm into the console. And the whole thing shuts down. All the lights go off, the view-screens snapping to black along with everything else, leaving him standing in pitch black. At least until there's a hiss, and the ramp opens up to let light shine in.

It's only after he's taken the first breath that he realizes the atmosphere of the planet might be toxic. He panics for a second, but the breath comes smooth; nothing burns, nothing feels wrong. He slowly climbs down out of the lion, having to grab at the edges so he can drop down instead of having to inch his way out. The ground feels soft beneath his boots, and he bounces a bit to test the consistency — and gravity — as he looks around.

The planet looks to have some sort of grass on the fields that he's standing in the middle of, though granted it's in a shade of yellow that makes his eyes hurt a bit. It fades into oranges and there are strange patches of green flower looking things that might double as bushes, though he's not close enough to the clusters to actually tell. He bounces a bit higher than he should; slightly lower gravity than Earth-normal. The mountains in the distance are layered, rising in gradual slopes that feel more like enormous mounds than the more craggy ones he's familiar with.

"Great," he mutters, as he turns to look back at Red.

The ground beneath it is torn up, scorch marks where it apparently skidded to a stop. The lion is on its side, eyes blank and dead, mouth still open. The force field isn't even up yet, which worries him a little, but then he's only been a few feet away from it. Maybe that'll kick in if he walks away. He has to find help somewhere, or at least food or something if he's going to wait for his lion to repair itself. (The lions self-repair, don't they? He's pretty sure they do.)

There's a sharp buzzing sound, and pure instinct makes him jerk down onto the ground as green blaster fire sizzles over his head. He scrambles back to his feet, reaching for his bayard and letting it slide out into its sword as he spins around in the direction of the blast. It takes a few running steps, but then he can see the _ship_ parked across the fields, hidden by Red's bulk from where he was standing. There are approaching people, heading towards him with raised guns. Not in uniforms, they don't look like Galra soldiers, and the ship definitely isn't a standard Galra one, but who _else_ could be after him this soon after their attempt on Zarkon's command center?

He _will not_ let them have Red. Not while he's still breathing.

He bares his teeth and takes a look at the approaching people. Six, all with guns and what look like closer-range weapons strapped to their waists or backs. Mismatched clothing; he's not familiar enough with fashions out in the universe at large to know anything about what they might be, but the ship behind them looks more than a little oversized for six people and there are definitely some big weapons on it.

He can probably take six people. Maybe. He's always been a good fighter, and he's got good armor and a great weapon himself. It shouldn't be really hard, but he does need to close the distance first. He's no good if he's stuck over here while they blast at him from over there. He can't block everything.

The bayard in his hand is a comfort, and he braces against the ground, remembers the lighter gravity and figures it in as he calculates how fast he can move. He can probably get in among them quick enough; it's his best chance, anyway.

He starts to move, and then he hears the buzz of blaster fire, hears the hum as it slices through the air but no one's fired and there's nothing to dodge, nothing to—

He doesn't turn fast enough for the blast to not hit him, and it hits his palm and knocks the bayard out of it. It hits the ground, fizzing back into its base form, and he's still turning even as there's a streak of movement, dropping down from on top of his lion with an easy grace. The figure straightens up, blaster held easily in his left hand, steps confident and direct as the man approaches him. And it is a _man_. It's a _human_.

Tall, in a black, knee-length coat and some grey and white form-fitting clothes beneath that. Short black hair in an undercut, with a white streak at the front. One heavy scar across his face, which is… familiar. Too familiar. That _can't_ be right.

He shifts, glancing down at his bayard and thinking about whether he can grab it fast enough to avoid a shot.

"Don't even think about it, sweetheart!" the man calls, still approaching. "Make a grab for that and my next shot does a little more than singe your hand."

His hands curl into fists, and he looks towards the other crew members. They're approaching slower, more casually now that he's been disarmed by the ambush, and none of them are human. None of them are even the same species as any other, as far as he can tell. None of them are as dangerous as the singular human that's now within a dozen feet, and he gives his full attention again as he squares off, studying the angles of that face.

(It looks like… Could it _possibly_ be?)

"Another human," the man drawls, voice familiar but the tone _not_. Neither is the crooked grin, or the shine of familiar grey eyes. "Well, faster than I expected but eventually Zarkon was going to have to pick up more fragile-skinned playthings to mess around with." A pass of his gaze; dismissive but quick. "Not Galra armor, or any kind of slave uniform I know of, and that ship looks an awful lot like one of the lions that make up _Voltron_."

He blinks, taking half a step back in surprise. "How do you—?"

"Heard some things," is the quick answer. "Rumors. So, how about you get on your knees, sweetheart, hands behind your head, and I don't put a few shots in your chest?"

"Are you…?" He has to swallow, to scan that familiar but entirely different face again before he can finish, "Shiro? Is that really you?"

The grin slips, and his heart stutters.

" _Shiro_. You— We all thought you were dead. We thought—” He takes a step forward, letting his hands open. "I missed you, Shiro. I— You can help me. Help me get the lion running again, help me get out of here. You can tell me what happened on Kerberos and—”

The blast hits his chest dead-center, and slams him to the ground on his back. His world spins as he gasps for air.

"Cuff him, gag him, and throw him in a cell," comes the sharp order, as he struggles to focus again. "Strip this baby of anything she might be carrying, and then get her in our hold. I want us out of here the second it's done; who knows if he got tracked coming in. Get to work, boys!"

He's flipped roughly onto his stomach, arms wrenched behind him as something clicks around his wrists. A distinctly alien hand — faintly slimy — grabs him by the back of his head and pulls it up, before metal presses against his mouth and jaw, being tugged into place and secured around the back of his head with what feels like more metal. He shakes his head, kicks out with his feet, but nothing connects.

The aliens drag him across the field and towards their ship, one on each side. They're chattering over his head in a language that seems to be not much more than clicks and whistles. He grunts some protests, but quickly realizes he can't make any sort of meaningful noise behind what he's realized is the constrictive metal of a muzzle. He can barely get his lips a fraction apart; barely enough to get air that way, let alone say anything.

The ship they take him into is mainly grey, but he only gets a quick view of the area behind the loading ramp before one of the aliens clamps a hand over his eyes. He struggles, but they seem to be stronger than him. (At least this hand isn't slimy, just faintly scaled so it rubs against his skin with every shift.)

The hand doesn't come off until he's being all but thrown into a room, staggering to a stop just before he's about to trip and fall onto a narrow bed against the wall. He spins around as soon as he can get his feet underneath him again, just in time to see a flash of black energy go diagonally across the empty space separating his cell from the corridor beyond. The two aliens are walking away, nudging each other's shoulders and — he's pretty sure — grinning as they head down the corridor, as though there's actually something blocking him from following them.

Is there?

He edges closer, peering down at the black line drawn from one end of the maybe ten foot gap to the other. He extends one foot slightly past it, and _yelps_ as a shock jerks up his limb, the apparently empty space erupting into sparks that make him nearly leap backwards. Alright, _not_ empty space. Definitely a barrier there.

The back of his knees hits the bed, and he falls back before he thinks about it. The bed is softer than he expected, but not by much; he’s slept on lumpier things over the years, but maybe not harder ones.

After twisting his wrists against the cuffs for a while, and doing his best to try to somehow get the muzzle off by rubbing it against his shoulder, he gives up on both ventures. The best he manages is to crane his arms back and get them down underneath his legs so that his hands are in front of him, and while that’s a little comforting it’s not enough to let him actually do anything. The cuffs are solid, and there does seem to be some sort of locking mechanism but he doesn’t know how to do anything with it and he hasn’t got any other tech on him to try. He’s not Pidge.

He settles in to wait.

It can’t be more than about a half hour before there’s the hum of an opening door beyond his cell, and he looks up to watch Shiro stride into view, coming to lean on the closer side of the cell’s opening, watching him.

The muzzle keeps him silent, but he glares as best he can, clenching his hands inside their cuffs. Shiro just leans there, watching him, clearly studying him. He hates how that feels, hates that he’s honestly completely unsure whether the person standing in front of him is _really_ Shiro. It looks like him in so many ways, there was a reaction to the name, but…

But Shiro’s been missing and presumed dead for years. There was never any wreckage found on the moon, so he’d _hoped_ that something strange had happened (and Pidge was _so sure_ of it, even before they got dropped into all this craziness), but there was never proof. Never any sign that what he wanted to be true actually was.

He tenses as the ship rumbles beneath him, and Shiro’s head tilts, gaze lowering to the floor for a moment. “We’re lifting off the planet,” comes the simple comment, voice low. “Your lion’s in our hold; wasn’t much on it which means that you don’t normally live in it. Came from a bigger ship, didn’t you?” He can’t answer, and Shiro doesn’t seem to be expecting one because he continues, “But, since it’s nowhere to be seen, I’m guessing there was some sort of navigational problem, which is why you’re way out here with not an ally in sight. Interesting wormhole you popped out of; didn’t look stable.”

He glares a bit harder, grinding his teeth and wishing he could yell.

Shiro reaches into a pocket with his left hand, retrieving something small and metal that he flips between his fingers. “Now, I’m going to let you open your mouth again, and I’m hoping you’re smart enough not to start screaming. We can be civil about this, can’t we?”

The metal thing gets pinched between two fingers, twisted. He’s expecting the barrier to come down, or something, but instead the muzzle itself suddenly retracts, sliding back into itself with a _shunk_ that makes him flinch. He takes a startled breath and his jaw moves easily, parts easily. He lifts his hands, feeling at the bare skin around his mouth. The metal has folded in on itself as far as he can tell, into the strap around his head, which seems to be basically glued to his cheeks now.

He tugs at it, and Shiro comments, “I wouldn’t. You can get it off, but you’ll take your skin with it. Handy device, hm? Stole it from a Galra prison ship; they’ve got all kinds of nifty tools.”

He gets to his feet, narrowing his eyes as he demands, “Are you really Shiro? Are you just messing with me?”

Shiro’s mouth curls at one side, gaze unwavering, but there’s no answer.

“Answer me!” he shouts, lunging forward across the cell. The line brings him up short, but only barely. It doesn’t _feel_ like there’s anything between them, and this close he can see the finely buzzed sides of Shiro’s familiar undercut, and the utterly unfamiliar steel of his eyes.

“It’s Keith, isn’t it?” Shiro’s voice is low, soft like it’s just between them.

He swallows, caught off guard by the shift in tone and the sound of his name. “That’s not— That’s not an _answer_ ,” he makes himself say. “If you’re some kind of… I don’t know, telepathic creature or something… Just _answer_ me; are you Shiro?!”

There’s a beep, and he has just enough time to register the flash of black energy in front of his face before Shiro is striking, shoving him back with a hard hand to his chest. The air comes out of him in a whoosh as he staggers backwards and Shiro is dropping, a leg spinning out and neatly sweeping both legs out from under him before he can stabilize.

He hits the ground hard, unable to break his fall with his wrists cuffed like they are, and before he can do more than start to curl up Shiro is on top of him. Shiro’s right hand — and it looks _silver_ — grabs the cuffs and drags his arms up, pinning them to the floor above his head. He struggles, but it doesn’t stop Shiro from straddling him, weight settling firmly over his hips and holding them down as well. The yell of anger that bursts from his throat is quickly followed by the grip of strong fingers on his jaw, holding his head still as Shiro leans down over him.

"Shhh," comes the admonishment. "Your answer is yes, but no. I'm Takashi, but I'm not who you knew, Keith, if you couldn't guess that already." He squirms, but the hand holding his arms down seems to be completely immovable, and the fingers on his jaw are hard enough that they ache. Shiro's mouth curls at one side again, and the disconnect between that half-smile and the studying gaze unnerves him. "And _you._ Garrison's star pupil turned universe-saving hero; not much of a jump there, really. I'm curious, how'd you wind up all the way out here, cadet?"

The fingers on his jaw let go, and he bares his teeth at them, at the strange mockery of someone he knew, _respected_. "I got kicked out," he snaps, bucking up and getting absolutely nowhere. Shiro is _heavy_. "Get the hell off me!"

"No. See, this is my ship, Keith, and you're one _hell_ of a big target right now. Got a fortune sitting on top of your head for anyone who hands you into the Galra." He swallows, and Shiro's hand clasps lightly around his throat, fingers just barely brushing the skin where his suit ends. "Give me a good reason to keep you around; or give me a terrible reason and make it sound good, I really don't care. I've got a crew full of murderers and scum and they're going to want to know why I haven't slit your throat yet."

"Zarkon wants me alive," is the first thing he comes up with, and Shiro _laughs,_ the curve of his mouth turning to a grin.

"Oh, _sweetheart_. Zarkon wants you _dead_. Now, would he prefer to have you executed in front of billions, streamed across his whole empire? Yes. But a corpse will do just as well, just means the video won't be as lively." The fingers squeeze his throat hard enough to make his breath catch, and Shiro's grin twists into something a little meaner. "Don't try and explain Zarkon to me. You haven't got a clue how his mind works so don't pretend you do; that'll get you into trouble. Now, let's try this again. Why should I keep you alive?"

"You— You know me, we were friends, you—”

" _Personal_ ," Shiro says, with a roll of his eyes and a snort. "It's been a long few…” There's a pause, and then a mocking, "Years? I'd guess it's been years but it's kind of hard to track time without a steady orbit to base it off of. Now, my crew _might_ believe that I'm keeping you around for familiar sex with one of my own species, but they're not going to believe that I care enough about some distant past friend to risk the target it'll put on our back."

He almost chokes, and it's got nothing to do with the hand on his throat.

Shiro doesn't even blink at his reaction. "So I'm going to head back up to the rest of my crew, and one of them is going to come down here to strip you out of this armor. I'd suggest you come up with an answer that's a little better than 'because you know my name' before I have you brought up to me tomorrow. You're only going to get one chance to make your case, so don't waste it on something useless."

The hand gripping his neck lets go, and a moment later Shiro is releasing his hands and rising easily to his feet in a burst of movement. He sucks in a deep breath and wiggles backwards, out from underneath him until he can brace his hands on the ground and curl both legs in, glaring upward.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" he asks, clenching his hands as he shifts back, pushing up to sitting.

Shiro sinks back down into a crouch, fingers braced lightly against the ground between his legs. The way his mouth curls is just a hint, miles shy of a grin, but it's just as unnerving as the way that those grey eyes narrow, shoulders shifting down as he goes utterly _still_. Keith swallows, unable to look away from the intensity of those eyes, unable to stop how his pulse picks up as something in him shrinks back, tightens his chest, and—

"Feel that _fear?_ " Shiro murmurs, voice soft and low, the hint of a smile still curling one corner of his mouth. "You know exactly what I am, Keith. You can feel it, just like anyone else with a shred of sense. I'm a _monster,_ and you're trapped, helpless prey. You're getting a chance to prove you're interesting, to convince me not to snap your bones in half with my _teeth_."

He flinches. Shiro pushes back, slowly straightening back up.

"If you thought I was bluffing, you might want to reconsider." A sharper smile, as Shiro turns away and leaves the cell. "I don't bluff," is offered over one shoulder. "Close your mouth, or that muzzle is going to sting when I close it again."

"Wait!" he says, which gets Shiro to turn back towards him with one raised eyebrow. "My— The Lion. Just, please, don't let Zarkon get a hold of it. If he gets all of Voltron…”

Shiro watches him for a moment, then quietly offers, "I'd ditch the damn thing in a sun before I let him have it. You can let that worry go, now close your mouth."

He snaps his teeth together, and there's only a second before that small metal remote is back in Shiro's right hand (it looks like _metal_ still) and the muzzle extends back into place and holds his jaw shut. He shakes his head, hating the feeling. Shiro steps outside the cell, hand slipping off to the side and hitting the controls. They beep, and the energy flashes over the front of the cell again, sealing him in. He pushes back to his feet as Shiro turns around, watching him through the barrier and the faint smile is gone, leaving only the steel focus behind.

"They'll be here soon enough. Behave for it, and I'll make sure you get a meal sometime tonight too." A wave of one hand, and as Shiro heads away, down the corridor, he calls, "See you tomorrow, Keith. Have an answer for me!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Tired, maybe will add notes later. Enjoy!)

According to the crew member set to guard him (now with a dark black bruise blooming across his reptile-like cheek) Keith doesn’t behave, so Shiro holds back any order for food to be brought down to their temporary prisoner. As he promised.

The night passes smoothly enough, though he can see the renewed murmuring of his crew now that there’s the prize of a lifetime sitting in both their hold and their brig. Turning in either one would be enough to guarantee easy living for a lifetime, and he can see that at least some of his crew is tempted by the idea. Not surprising; any normal pirate crew would have had at least three messages to Galra ships by now.

His crew isn’t normal though, he made sure of it when he weeded out anyone with a price on their head that was less than an absolute fortune. If they were, he would have been sold out a long time ago. He's one of a grand total of three (now four) humans that exist in the universe outside of Earth itself, which makes him an easy target to identify; there's no way that every single member of his crew doesn't know who he is, or what he's worth to the right people. To one person.

(Zarkon would love to have his Champion back, if only to flay his skin off piece by piece until he's learned his lesson.)

He shifts in his seat, letting it move slightly side to side as he watches, in equal measure, the members of his crew that are currently on the bridge with him and the actual information on the screens. They're talking back and forth, calling mocking insults and teasing each other as they sprawl back in their chairs as well. They seem mostly at ease, but then his crew are all good liars; comes with the territory. He'll have to wait and see how things develop when he summons Keith up here and gets a few answers.

Not on the bridge — bringing a prisoner onto somewhere with actual controls wouldn't be the brightest — but just outside, in what they tend to call the 'anteroom.’ All of the full-crew meetings happen in there, since it's one of the only rooms big enough for all of them to still have some personal space when gathered, as well as all of their interrogations, and all _challenges_. The double-meaning is probably language specific, but maybe the translators do a good enough job to get it across to at least some of them.

His crew are going to want to get a good look at their new prisoner, after all, and denying them that will only make them more interested in why that is. If he hides Keith, protects him at all, he practically guarantees that one of his crew will fight him on it. If not physically, at least by undermining his authority, which is almost worse.

As if he would protect anyone else to his own detriment. Keith's been warned; he'll have to fend for himself for the rest of this and earn his own survival. (Shiro learned that lesson a long time ago, and he's sacrificed more than enough for other people. Never again.)

The clock clicks a bit higher, and he's experienced enough at reading the alien time by now that he knows his current shift is over. It's time. By the glances that he's getting, the other three crew members on the bridge have been anticipating this too, even if their chatter didn't betray it. Not surprising; they raid ships and settlements often enough but actually taking on prisoners is rare. It's not like they can turn bounties in without getting arrested themselves.

"Ready for a show?" he asks, as he drops his feet down off of the console in front of him and pushes up out of his chair.

His second-best pilot, A'leeta (grey and furry, smaller than him by a couple heads and rounder, probably female but he's not entirely certain and hasn't asked), locks the route with a swipe of one three-fingered hand and smiles with needle-teeth. He's pretty sure that what she's actually saying is nowhere close to any human language, but what he hears is, "Gonna put one on, Captain?"

He grins back, making sure his teeth show because he's also pretty sure that whatever her race is, showing teeth is actually a friendly gesture in their culture. That, or she's threatening him and he's threatening back; either works. "Pay me enough I might consider it. I can't promise the quality of this one, but it seems like he's got spirit. Don't pretend you're not interested."

She slips off the chair, laughing low and husky ( _deep_ in a way that always makes him think that maybe his 'female' idea is totally wrong) as she heads towards the exit. It opens before she gets there, admitting two others that head towards the most important stations to replace his others. It's a skeleton-crew shift, which makes it perfect to gather any of the rest of the crew that want to watch the 'interrogation.'

"Feel free to pull up the security feeds," he offers, as they take their seats. "Just keep an eye on the ship while you do."

"You got it, Captain," one calls back, feet immediately propping up on the console, spindly fingers unlocking the console with easy precision.

He heads for the exit, and when he strides past the door a good portion of the rest of his crew (fourteen of them; two now on duty on the bridge, one down at the cells as guard, and two others not here) are waiting in a loose ring around the room, some small groups clustered together and talking. He's not sure whether the low voices are planning something, or just quiet out of habit. Equally likely, really, and not worth more than a passing notation in his mind unless it gets any more serious.

He raises a hand to tap the communicator hooked over one ear. "Sr-kel," he calls, loud enough that anyone even half paying attention in the room will hear, "bring our guest up."

The reply, _"Yes, sir. On my way,"_ is only in his own ear though, so he offers a sharp smile to the rest of the room to confirm it before he finds an empty spot on the wall to lean against.

Easing himself into stillness is a skill made easy by long practice, his breath slowing and shallowing to move his chest the absolute minimum, his gaze softening to watch the room at large without specifically watching any of them. One leg rises, foot bracing against the wall to give the appearance of being relaxed (he could shove off the wall fast and hard enough to gut anyone who mistakes it for that; he knows from experience). The wall is a solid reassurance at his back; he hasn’t been weak enough to worry about being trapped against one in a long time.

The anticipation is thick enough in the air that he can practically taste it.

When the door of the lift actually opens, and Keith is shoved out ahead of the green-scaled (mostly-reptilian and as likely to move on all fours as his two back legs), hulking brute that they collectively call ‘Sr-kel’ (because only one other member of his crew can pronounce the hissing of his actual name), his crew react instantly. Keith's been stripped down to a pair of black pants and a black tank-top, baring the paler skin of his shoulders and arms and making him look more like the comparatively fragile human that he is. Smaller than all but three members of his crew, lacking real teeth, claws, armor, or anything else that would make him a visible threat.

His crew aren't outright aggressive, no one lunges, but there are some catcall-like whistles, and some laughter that clearly sets Keith on edge, given how his shoulders are tense and high. The muzzle is locked in place, and the cuffs are still binding his wrists in front of him. That small fact draws Shiro's mouth into a faint smirk; when Sr-kel stripped the armor off he would have had to remove the cuffs, and they would have gotten locked back on behind Keith's back once again. The little paladin is persistent, at least.

Sr-kel has one massive hand in the center of Keith's back, fingers hooked up over the top of his shoulder and steering him out ahead. Keith's gaze is darting around the room, head turning to the sides as he tries to catalog all of the members of the crew that are here. He's welcome to try; there are two partial-shapeshifters and one empath that tends to push a feeling of uneasiness on you if you watch for too long, and that's not to mention that all of his crew are relatively 'alien' enough to be confusing to begin with.

Speaking from experience, Shiro knows it takes a while to acclimate to being out here. Aliens blend together for a while, until you get accustomed to that being the only thing you see.

He watches as Sr-kel shoves Keith down in roughly the center of the room, and he lets Keith look around the room for another few moments before he shifts forward, silencing the crew as he moves out into the empty space. The new, anticipatory silence draws Keith to look up, to find him and then track him, fingers curling to fists despite how they're mostly useless cuffed like that. To an amateur, anyway; fighting with restraints on is an interesting challenge but it's entirely possible. He's done it.

He skips forward past the whole 'intimidation' stage that he would pull on almost any other alien, the circling, snapping, dance that forces the hindbrain of most species to consider him a predator. He's done a miniature version already, and he's not interested in making Keith be afraid of him. Instead he lowers himself down to a crouch in front of Keith, letting himself focus on Keith as if he were an opponent, letting the corner of his mouth quirk a little.

"Well hello there," he murmurs. One of his crew snickers, Keith's gaze snaps towards the sound, and he quickly corrects, " _Ah_. Right here, sweetheart. Pay attention to me now, understand?" Keith looks a little shaken — showing weakness like that will get him hurt; he'll learn that if he survives — but gives a small nod. "Good. Now, you've got some questions to answer for me. Lie to me, and I'll have to find the truth myself, which I promise you'll regret making me do. Are we clear?"

Keith gives another nod, gaze holding his, shoulders stiff and eyes slightly wild. He offers a slightly more obvious smile, rewarding the obedience, before slowly straightening back up. He slips his metal hand into his pocket, the nerves a little dulled but still sensitive enough for him to retrieve the muzzle's remote. Keith's gaze flicks to it for a moment, and he waits until those eyes return to meet his own before he twists the release.

The muzzle retracts with a _shunk;_ this time Keith doesn't flinch at the noise, though he does wince and almost instantly take in a breath through his mouth. He lets Keith recover for a couple moments, jaw working side to side, tongue slipping out to wet those lips, before he puts the remote away and lets his metal hand come to brace on his hip, baring the small pistol holstered there. Keith's gaze lingers there, but on his hand, not the gun.

“Let’s start simple, hm?” Keith’s gaze rises back to his, knees shifting on the floor to give him a more stable base. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Keith,” comes the answer, louder than his voice but not nearly as solid. He’s unnerved.

Once upon a time, Shiro probably would have offered some sort of comfort. Now he knows better. “Alright, Keith. You’re one of the paladins of Voltron, aren’t you?”

Keith tenses a bit further, expression turning guarded as he watches. Finally, right on the edge of where Shiro’s considering striking to prove a point, there’s a grudging, “Yes.”

He gives a small smile, sharpening his voice to something sickeningly sweet as he offers, “Point of advice, sweetheart; if you’re going to hold out on anything I wouldn’t do it on the things that are painfully obvious. Like whether you actually piloted the ship we watched you come out of.”

His crew shares a laugh as Keith flushes, red rising on his cheeks and making his embarrassment clear. The grind of his teeth is equally obvious, shoulders curling defensively inwards. Shiro watches it all mostly impassively, though he holds his smile to make it look like he actually thinks it’s funny. It is, distantly, but he’s not invested in humiliating Keith like he would be if this were, say, some Galra prisoner.

“How’d you end up all alone all the way out here, Paladin?” he asks, when it’s quieted again.

Keith’s gaze lifts, guarded but still leaking his thoughts like a sieve, betraying everything he’s considering. Like whether or not to answer.

It’s a shorter pause this time, before Keith lifts his head and announces, defiance in every syllable, “Rescuing someone from Zarkon’s command center.”

Which is _not_ the answer that he was expecting. His mind stalls for a moment — who’s _stupid_ enough to raid Zarkon’s very center of power? — before he hides his surprise behind a crooked smirk, arching an eyebrow.

“And how stunningly bad did that go?” he mocks.

Keith holds his gaze, chin raised. “It _didn’t_. We got her out just fine; took out a good chunk of the ships he sent to stop us. All of us got out, we made a wormhole to escape, and we kept every single member of our team out of his hands. It went _fine."_

He tilts his head and counters, "And yet, I watched you plummet out of the sky and crash-land, and that lion of yours sure as hell isn't going anywhere soon with the damage on it. Tell the truth now, sweetheart."

A hint of the flush returns, but Keith's hands curl a bit tighter and he pushes an inch up to face him without fear. "They destabilized the wormhole as we left; some of us got sucked out the open hatch into the walls of it. My lion was damaged before that in a fight, but we managed. We _won_." Keith's voice sharpens as he demands, "Why would you automatically think that we failed? Did pessimism come along with the new hand and the attitude change?"

He stays still as his crew reacts to that new bit of information; it's not a direct statement but it's close enough and all of them are smart enough to link it together. Keith knows him ( _knew_ him, a part of his mind insists), and that means he might not be objective, it means he might have a weak point, it means he might be _soft_ on this other little human. Damnit; he was trying to avoid that becoming common knowledge. He's worked very carefully at making sure that he's _anything_ but weak, because his crew is bloodthirsty and loyal only because he's the nastiest thing around.

If they sense any weakness, they'll bite. He's seen it before; endured it before. ( _Doesn't_ want to endure it again.)

Keith glances around, looking at the crew like he can sense the change in the atmosphere. It's ridiculous to think that he knows the consequences of what he's implied by saying that they knew each other at some other point, but he has circled back around to looking slightly unnerved. Granted, almost anyone faced with the silence and focus of his crew on them would be unnerved, Keith's just especially obvious about it.

He doesn't look at his crew, doesn't betray that he's considering their reaction and what he can do to minimize it, especially because the answer is obvious enough.

Keith looks back when he gives a small laugh, letting his mouth curl to a smile that's almost friendly. Then he strikes, bursting into motion and pivoting on the ball of his left foot so he can snap the other one out. He's too fast for anyone not expecting it, and Keith reacts far too late to stop the top of his boot from impacting with one still-flushed cheek. Keith yelps, hands just barely catching himself before he smacks into the ground, eyes squeezed shut, face barely an inch from the ground.

Shiro steps forward, fitting his boot over Keith's throat and pressing down until the hands skid out from under him, trapping his face against the floor as he chokes. "Maybe," he comments, idly watching Keith's legs kick out across the floor, "I know a little more about Emperor Zarkon than you think you do. Now, I'd think very carefully about your answer to this next question, sweetheart. Have you got any reason why I shouldn't throw you out the airlock?"

He eases the pressure of his boot just enough that Keith can take a gasping breath, cuffed hands shoved hard against the floor. One cough later, and a flash of wide eyes in his direction, and Keith gasps, "Information. I— I know current information about Zarkon's base, his fleet…”

It's not good enough.

"You're right," he agrees anyway, after a moment, before he steps back and meets the gaze that looks up at him for a brief second. "Manter," he then calls, glancing up towards the corner with a flash of a smirk. "Get your tools, get anything relevant out of him, and _then_ throw him out the airlock. I know how interested you've been in exploring human biology. Don't kill him before you get the information."

Keith's head snaps around as his 'medic' slides out of the corner, too many teeth (sharper than human; and a mouth that splits far wider) and too many arms ( _four,_ long and thin and excruciatingly precise, all attached at his back) all showing that Manter is, as expected, thrilled to have a human to pull apart and examine.

He wouldn't and hasn't let Manter within a half-dozen feet of him unless it was an actual emergency. His species is apparently curious as a rule but there are _reasons_ for the price sitting on his resident medic, and before he was captain, he was almost treated to a firsthand version of those 'reasons.' Never, _ever_ again.

"Understood, Captain," is the gleeful answer, and Keith is rapidly paling, eyes wide again.

"Sr-kel," Shiro says, turning his gaze back to his jailer, "escort them, would you? Med center or the cells; I don't care."

"Wait!" Keith almost shouts, as Sr-kel steps forward and leans down to grab him by the back of his tank-top, hauling him up. "Don't! _Please!_ Shiro!"

He crosses his arms, watching as Sr-kel gets Keith up onto his feet, starting to drag him backwards. A small part of him cringes back from what he knows he's condemning Keith to, but he viciously suppresses it, keeping his expression even and unaffected. Caring gets you killed, it's as simple as that, and Keith hasn't been a friend for a long time. He's not about to risk his neck, _literally_ , to save one stupid, naive paladin that couldn't keep out of trouble. It doesn't matter what tiny bit of his past self is still horrified.

('Shiro' was weak; 'Champion' is a different beast and will _not_ fall to the same mistakes.)

Sr-kel yanks Keith back, making him stumble and almost fall. Then, as he watches, fear sharpens into desperation.

Keith twists, ducking down and pulling away, arms stretching out so that Sr-kel's grip on the tank-top pulls it off his head and down to catch on the cuffs. That frees Keith up to grab it himself and coil, kicking out at Sr-kel's stomach and landing a solid hit. Not enough to make Sr-kel do more than reflexively let go, but that's enough for Keith to back up. His crew is laughing again, more at Sr-kel's irritation than anything else, but Keith ignores it, hands clenched as he backs up far enough that he can turn enough to see both him and Sr-kel.

There's a moment, where Sr-kel hisses, and then Keith shudders and turns away to look directly at Shiro instead. "I'll pilot Red for you," is the declaration, said loud enough to be obviously desperate. "You keep me alive, you keep me on the ship, and I'll pilot her for… whatever you want."

Now, that's better.

"I have other pilots," he points out, though he lets his gaze flick to Sr-kel for a moment to keep him in his tracks.

"Not for Red you don't," Keith argues. "The Voltron Lions aren't just ships; the technology is way beyond… anything. They choose their pilots, and I'm it. You kill me and all you've got in your hold is a glorified hunk of metal. She won't work for any of you."

It's an interesting piece of information, and with most people he'd assume it was a lie but he can't pick out any trace of deception in Keith's expression. Voltron _would_ have to be very advanced to have any chance against Zarkon's fleets, true enough, and it's not like he's had the chance to examine the Lion himself yet. It's not unlikely.

But, "And you think the solution to that is to put _you_ at the helm of an extremely powerful war machine that's not under my control? Really?"

Keith faces him more evenly, head tilting up with just a hint of the challenge from earlier. "All of your 'nifty Galra tools' and you don't have anything that can keep me in line? I thought you raided a prison ship; seems like something they would have."

He lets the silence be for a few long seconds, holding Keith's gaze and watching him fight not to fidget as time drags. Then he lets his arms uncross as he moves forward, keeping his stride even and slow until he's standing in front of Keith, looking down at him. "Now see?" he says, into the quiet. " _That's_ a good answer."

The way Keith breathes in, sharp and sudden, almost reeks of relief.

"Stay," he orders, as he shifts to the side.

He takes a slow circle around Keith for the benefit of his crew, letting his gaze linger and rake along the pale length of Keith's now-bare back, until his crew is snickering to themselves and Keith is twitching underneath the scrutiny. Then, finally, he extends his flesh arm and lets his fingers slide through Keith's hair as he steps back in front of him. Keith flinches away, so Shiro grabs his jaw instead, dragging his head up and then obviously, _clearly_ eyeing the line of his throat.

He lets his lips curl at one corner, watching Keith shiver at the look. "Alright, sweetheart. You've won yourself a chance." He keeps the grip, but looks up and around at his crew, letting his gaze move slowly and evenly. "The Paladin and I are going to… _negotiate_. Back to your posts."

They take it exactly as he intended, gazes and smirks knowing as his crew splits up, heading for their respective positions or off to enjoy their free time. Keith stays still even though his breathing has picked up, as Shiro waits for the room to clear. It's not that long of a wait; his crew know how and when to make themselves scarce.

He lets his hand slide down to clasp the back of Keith's neck once they're alone, reaching into his pocket with his metal hand and retrieving the remote for the gag. There's a brief sound of protest, but he doesn't wait for it to form into real words before he activates it. Keith's jerk is small but noticeable, especially with his grip.

"Come on now, sweetheart," he murmurs, as he turns Keith around and steers him off in the direction of his rooms. "You don't want to do this in public."

Keith doesn't fight him, which might just mean that he understands.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone! (No specific comment today; tired, in pain. Do enjoy; see you next time.)

Keith's pretty sure that his heart is going to pound its way right out of his chest. He's not sure whether it will be pure adrenaline or the relief of not actually getting passed off to that… that _thing_ , but he's pretty sure it's going to explode out of his skin in true horror fashion any minute now.

The weight of Shiro's hand on the back of his neck, tight enough to be uncomfortable, is not helping matters anyway. He doesn't— He is _trying_ but he doesn't understand what's happened. This is Shiro; has to be. He reacts to that name, he doesn't deny having known him, but something is horrifically wrong. Something happened out here that's erased almost every recognizable trace of the man he remembers from the Garrison. His smiles have gone from kind to sharp and calculating. His pet names from sincere to sarcastic.

That's not even getting into the shock of white hair, the scar, and what he's pretty sure is a metal hand extending from that right sleeve. What _happened?_

Does he even have the time to spare to worry about that, when he's in so much danger himself? Shiro nearly— He's ninety percent sure that none of what just happened was a bluff, and that scares the hell out of him. He was almost dissected and thrown out an airlock, and the only way he found to stop it was to basically sell himself into slavery. He's scraping along by the skin of his teeth and Keith doesn't think that's going to cut it for much longer.

He needs a way out. He needs a _plan_.

It isn't till Shiro shoves him through a suddenly open doorway that he realizes that he's been so wrapped up in his own panic that he hasn't been paying attention to the path he's been led on, which really isn't at all helpful to what he needs to do here.

He staggers, and Shiro brushes right past him. By the time he's spun around the door has clicked closed again, and the only thing he has left to do is to look at the room he's now in. Not big, but bigger than most military quarters. Definitely bigger than his cabin, and his room on the Castle. Twice the size, he'd say. Maybe two thirds. There's a bed, recessed into the wall and probably big enough for three, a couch pressed up against one wall, and two separated panels in the walls that he's pretty sure are sliding doors, one just high enough off the ground that he classifies it as a closet of some kind. Maybe. That's the look of the closet in his room, anyway. The other… a bathroom, maybe? Makes sense to him that a captain of a ship would get a private bathroom in their quarters, but this is all alien design. Maybe they prioritized… meditation rooms or something.

"Home sweet home," Shiro comments sarcastically, and he's shrugging out of that long black coat. Beneath that is a form-fitting, sleeveless shirt in shades of dark grey that clings tight to a body both trimmer in the waist and broader in the shoulders than he remembers. "You'll stay with me until the crew settles down; then we'll see."

Even if Keith could answer with the muzzle still locked onto his skull, he’s distracted by the sight of what is not just a metal hand. It’s a whole _arm_ , smooth grey and black metal interlocking flawlessly together in decidedly not-human looking tech, coming midway up his bicep. That looks… That looks like Galra machinery. He’s not sure, but there’s something about the lines of it that feels dangerously familiar. And the _other_ arm; still human but scarred and pale…

He tears his gaze away from them, only to lift them and find Shiro watching him with sharp amusement. Keith glares reflexively, but it’s ruined when the muzzle suddenly retracts and he’s startled enough to flinch back. Shiro smirks, and it’s _nothing_ like the comforting, warm thing that used to light butterflies in Keith’s stomach. It makes his skin crawl. Too much skin; his tank top is still hanging from the cuffs around his wrists and he doesn’t like having his chest bared like this. He grabs the fabric and works to tug it back on, despite how awkward the angles feel.

“I’m impressed you managed to do anything useful with Voltron when you’re this easy to unnerve,” Shiro comments just after he’s pulled it over his head, turning around and tossing the little control remote or wand or whatever it is over onto the couch to land on top of the discarded coat. “Is it as powerful as rumors suggest, or is it because you’re only this emotionally undisciplined around me?”

“I’m not—” Keith struggles to find any words, but he can’t find a defense to that accusation. It may as well be true. Shiro hasn’t been _around_ , but ever since Pidge brought her theories up, since they found mention of humans taken captive… He’d be a liar to say that Shiro hasn’t been the driving force behind him ever since that idea was kindled that he might still be _alive_.

He thought maybe they’d find him injured, or imprisoned, but _this_ had never even crossed his mind. He doesn’t even know what _this_ is.

Shiro turns back to him, gaze flicking down his frame in a small glance. “No, you were never good with words, were you?”

Keith seizes onto the hint where he has nothing else, taking a step forward and asking, “So you do remember me? Earth?”

The shrug is dismissively careless. “Most of it, sure.” Shiro’s voice is dry as he lifts his metal hand and twirls the fingers of it in an idle little circle at his temple, adding, “Having Druids twist your memories around their fingers tends to blur out some of the details. Side effect of the mental strain.”

It’s all flat, as if it’s a comment on someone else’s experience, but Keith’s stomach goes tight because it’s _not_ just a comment. Shiro’s had contact with Druids. Been… What, interrogated by them? Brainwashed? Tortured?

“What _happened_ to you?” Keith asks, staring at the metal arm and then the still human one, his gaze catching once again on the scars. Scattered and varied but some of them are big; one near his shoulder looks like a burn and covers a section of skin probably as big as Keith’s hand. He doesn’t remember Shiro having _any_ of those back on Earth.

Shiro’s eyes are still steel, and they don’t change even as he lifts his metal hand and spreads the fingers of it out, palm up. “What, this?”

His gaze flicks back up, and Keith sucks in a sharp breath as sharp lines of violet energy slice down the seams of the metal arm, brightening the hand until the whole thing glows and casts that faint purple light on everything around it. If it wasn’t the exact same shade as almost all the Galra weaponry Keith’s seen, he thinks he might have considered it pretty.

“The Galra?” he asks, even though he really already knows. “They took you off Kerberos? The Holts too?”

Shiro gives a confirming hum, lowering his hand as the light fades away. “That’s right. Galra are apparently fond of picking up slaves from backwards civilizations; less resistance when your workers don’t have a clue how your tech functions. And the Druids like new races to experiment on.”

Keith stiffens, diving past the rest of it and focusing on, “Did the Holts— Are they okay? Did they survive?”

“No idea,” is not what he’s expecting. Keith blinks, and Shiro gives an idle shrug and offers, “We were separated early on. Sam was taken to the mines for basic labor, Matt and I to the arena for cannon fodder. I went first, won, and never saw either of them again. Galra slaves don’t tend to have a long life expectancy unless they’re for ‘personal’ use, so dead is probably the most likely option.”

Keith’s jaw clenches, a dull sort of horror rising next to a wash of anger. Pidge… She deserves a better answer than that. “You never asked? You never tried to find out what happened? They were your crew! Your friends!”

“They were weaknesses,” is the sharp counter.

He stares for a second in shock. “You can’t— You don’t mean that.”

Shiro tilts his head, eyes narrowing a touch. “Why not? Because it’s not who you remember?” He scoffs and shakes his head, teeth flashing for just a moment. “Galra only respect strength. If you show weakness, then they exploit it until you either break, or it stops working. I did what I had to, to survive. You’re naive; you could never understand that.”

Keith bares his teeth right back, raising his voice. “You haven’t given me any _chance_ to!”

He backpedals as Shiro moves at him, nearly tripping over his own feet as those long strides eat up the distance until his back hits the wall and Shiro crowds him up against it. For just a second Keith winds up, feels like striking just to _get away_ , but he swallows the urge and flattens himself back instead to stare up. Shiro isn’t touching him, quite, only pinning him against the wall with size and the threat of it. This close, his gaze focuses for a sharp moment on that white, ragged scar across the bridge of Shiro’s nose before he can manage to lift it and meet his eyes instead.

“You want to understand?” Shiro asks, and his voice is quiet and laced with a low undercurrent of danger. He leans a touch closer in, and Keith flinches at the metal hand that brushes fingers down the outside of his left arm, even before Shiro murmurs, “Imagine knowing that every day is likely to be your last,” nearly into his ear. “Staying locked in a cell barely big enough to lie down in for hours on hours, the silence whittling away at your nerves every second of it as you wonder when they’re going to come for you again and drag you out into their arena. Imagine knowing that your only way to live is to kill whatever they put in that ring with you, whether it’s soldiers, or animals, or slaves just as helpless to resist as you are. Imagine your entire life being reduced to these single, bright moments of _kill,_ or be killed.”

Keith shudders. “No. I’d never—” Civilians? Slaves? _Never_. “I’d never kill innocents.”

“And you think you have a _choice_.” Shiro’s hands are suddenly on his arms, bearing him back against the wall with a grip just shy of painful. Keith jerks, but it’s unyielding. Shiro’s voice, in contrast, is low and aimed to hurt. “Your life doesn’t belong to you, it belongs to _them_. Humans are new, but it doesn’t take much for them to figure out how you tick. You tell them ‘no,’ and a Druid slides their fingers right into your skull and unhinges you from the inside out. You don’t even know what’s happened until you come back in the middle of the arena, covered in blood, bits of skin under your nails and their bodies all around you. You scream, and _scream,_ and all they do is laugh.”

Keith feels frozen, his gaze blind on the ceiling. He trembles when warm air rushes over his throat, and Shiro is breathing out a laugh, fingers tightening just slightly on his arms.

“You want to _understand_ , Keith? Try _understanding_ what it feels like to wear down a little more every day, feeling your sanity and will slip away bit by bit. Getting _intimately_ familiar with the look in someone’s eyes when you wrap your hands around their throat and _squeeze_.” Keith doesn’t think the sound he makes is anything coherent, and it doesn’t make a difference anyway. “Imagine knowing with perfect certainty that your only two options are to either _break_ , or to do what they tell you to, and become exactly what they want. No matter what it is.”

Keith can barely breathe for a moment, with those ideas catching hold in his mind. Shiro. The _Galra_. "You— You killed for them?"

Shiro steps back, shoving Keith back against the wall as he steps away. It hurts just a little, and Keith grimaces as he looks up. There's nothing in Shiro's expression but steel.

"I did whatever I had to. I _survived_. Is that so hard to believe, Keith? That I'm a killer? You're just as much of one as me." Keith stares, and Shiro gives a soft snort and a dismissive flick of his gaze down to his boots and back. "How many Galra cruisers have you destroyed, in that lion of yours? Do you know the complement on a cruiser like that? Or did it not occur to you that there were more than sentries on those ships?"

"That's different," he argues, because yes, he's thought of it. He's not sure the others have, but _he_ understands. "This is a war; those were soldiers. We do what we have to to protect the people they go after."

"Don't kid yourself. Not everyone on those ships is some vicious, Galra warrior. I can promise you that." He can't find an argument, and Shiro shakes his head, narrowing his eyes. "Do you get it now, Keith? Was that the 'chance' you were looking for to understand me? Just like that? Like I said, you're naive."

The words hurt. Keith takes a breath, shifting a bit off the wall. "Shiro…”

There's a lunge of movement. Keith tries to yelp but only chokes as Shiro's metal hand closes around his throat and slams him back into the wall. He grabs for that wrist, but there's nothing to grab hold of, nothing to dig into with just the smooth metal under his fingers. He kicks out, mostly blindly, but Shiro presses close enough it doesn't matter and lifts him up the wall, inch by inch until he’s suspended.

"You're on _my_ ship, and here? We’re not friends. You want to address me, you call me Captain or Champion, got it?"

The grip loosens exactly enough for him to take a strained breath, and then gasp an echoed, “Champion?”

“Never beaten. Now am I _clear_ , or am I leaving that gag on you till you figure it out?”

Keith struggles to breathe, and ends up having to lift himself slightly with his grip on Shiro’s arm to get enough room on his throat to speak. “ _Yes_. Yes, you’re clear.”

Shiro lets him slide down the wall some, but only enough to get in his face and flash his teeth for a moment. “Why don’t you say it?”

Being lower lets him get his toes on the ground, enough that he can ease the pressure and it’s easier to get enough air to grit out, “You’re clear, _Champion_.”

All at once Shiro lets him go, flicking the clutch of his hands aside with ease as he steps back. “Good. Now, let’s sort a few other things out too, while we’re on such a roll.” Keith presses back against the wall instead of letting himself bend over, trying to catch his breathing. “Firstly, you follow my orders. If I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it, and that goes double for outside my rooms. I’ve spent a lot of time getting this crew to respect me, and if I have to throw you out an airlock to keep that respect, I will. Got it?”

Keith can only bring himself to give a short, tense nod. His jaw feels welded shut, and the taste of that word — _Champion_ — sits on his tongue like a foul aftertaste.

Shiro studies him for a couple long moments, not offering anything but cool steel. Then, just as Keith is fighting the urge to start squirming under the weight of that gaze, he says, “I took a risk keeping you alive, Keith. If you want to stay that way, you’re going to have to realize that there are things that are going to happen here that you’re not going to like. Is that something you can handle, or am I wasting my time?”

“Things like what?” Keith asks, trying to ignore the foreboding prickle of wariness that sweeps down his spine.

“To start with, I sold your survival to my crew based on two things. That you would pilot the Red Lion for us, when we raid, and that I found you personally appealing.” Keith gets stuck on denial of the first for long enough that he doesn’t understand the second until Shiro adds, “They have no idea how human sex works, so luckily for you we don’t actually have to go through with it. Just make it look like we did.”

He nearly chokes.

“ _What?_ ” Keith freezes up, staring up at Shiro, trying to understand that— that— “No. No I’m not going to—”

Shiro cuts him off with a sharp, “It’s this or I stop protecting you. I’m not letting you endanger me just because you can’t deal with a little playacting.”

Keith shakes his head, wishing he had room to step any further back, or that he really thought he could slide out sideways and not get pinned. “I’m not having sex with you,” he manages to choke out. Even the words make him flush, and he has to fight _hard_ not to let his brain start imagining anything it shouldn’t.

For just a moment, Shiro’s face shows very clear exasperation. “You’re not even _listening_ are you? That’s what I just said; we don’t have to go through with it, just make the rest of them think we did.”

“Oh.” Not that it… makes him feel better, really. He fidgets, watching Shiro shut his eyes for just a second as that exasperation fades back to the steel impassiveness. “What does that mean?”

That steel doesn’t fluctuate as Shiro lifts his shoulders in a faint shrug. “The Galra are the biggest influence to things out here, and the crew expects a certain amount of Galra behavior from me as Champion. Capitalizing on that, I think we can get away with a few marks and a bit of scent.”

Keith blinks in mute confusion, and Shiro doesn’t _quite_ sigh.

“I’m going to bite you a few times, and you’re going to need to smell like me.” Shiro keeps talking as Keith flushes brighter, his cheeks all but blazing. “We don’t have the senses to notice, but some of them do. That should do fine.”

“You’re going to…” Keith swallows. It’s not a choice. It’s not a _choice_. Okay, a little biting; he can handle that fine, right? “Okay. Alright. So how does—”

Shiro is reaching forward, and Keith flinches away but not far enough to stop metal fingers closing over his shoulder. They flip him with easy strength, pinning him to the wall with the length of that metal arm pressed across his upper back. Keith takes a sharp breath, his fingers pressing to the wall as he feels Shiro step in close behind him, warm against his back and pulling his hair off his neck with the gentle brush of human fingers.

“Stay still,” Shiro orders, and then adds a not entirely unkind, “and try to relax.”

Keith does his best, but the exhalation of warm air over the side of his neck still makes him draw tight in reflex. Teeth press in, bear down, and he clenches his jaw and eyes shut to bear the pressure. He can feel the sharp slice of the moment the teeth break skin. He muffles a yelp behind his teeth and fights the urge to lash out or jerk away, pressing his hands against the wall as hard as he can manage to vent the instinct.

He shivers when Shiro releases the bite, wondering if he’s bleeding but not wanting to actually check.

“The rest won’t be as deep,” Shiro offers, startling him a little.

The fingers let his hair fall back on his neck, and Keith has just a moment of warning before the second bite is pressed into the top of his right shoulder. He braces, but true to the words he’s barely finished recognizing it’s not as intense as the one to his neck. Pressure, but mainly a hard suction that creates more of a duller ache than that sharper pain. Easier to breathe through.

Shiro shifts when he lets go of that one, metal arm releasing its pin across his upper back. Both hands grip his waist instead, Shiro’s weight itself pressing him into the wall as the teeth come down midway between his shoulder and neck on the left side. Keith inhales, feels the heat of Shiro’s chest against his back and the flex of fingers against his waist, and has to bite back a moment of panicked horror as a realization occurs to him.

This is… not completely different — except how it’s _completely different_ — from some of those fantasies he’d had back in the Garrison. Shiro, tall and broad and pressing him up against a wall, kisses pressed against his shoulders, and—

And this is completely inappropriate and a nightmare version of that fantasy and he needs to forget it _right now_.

Keith opens his eyes just so he can stare at the grey metal of the wall, reminding himself with the alien unfamiliarity of it that this is _not_ anything he wants. This isn't the Garrison, it's not his shack, it's not even the Castle. This is some random pirate vessel in some random piece of space with a changed, murderous version of his best friend (and that was _all_ it ever was, before Shiro vanished) sinking _teeth_ into his skin to keep him alive as a hostage. None of that is a good thing, even if his hind-brain really wants to think it is.

Shiro pulls back, eventually. When his shoulders and the top of his back aches, and he's sure by the slight feeling of warmth trickling down the side of his neck that yes, he is bleeding. He focuses on the questionable hygiene of that, and what the chances are of infection, so he doesn't have to think about the rest of it.

"That should do," Shiro comments, and Keith is seized by sudden recognition because it's the _exact_ tone that Shiro used to get when he would talk about homework and schematics. A half-idle, not-really-speaking-to-anyone-else murmur with just enough strength to make his focus clear.

Keith can just imagine the small frown that must be wrinkling his brow.

His eyes squeeze shut again, a shiver sliding down his back as he tries not to think about those long hours spent working next to Shiro, sharing space in the Garrison's library or back in one of their assigned rooms to work out assignments. The smile that would curl Shiro's mouth into something soft and caring when their eyes met over the table, and the warm curl of fingers around his own as Shiro would take his hand and squeeze it tight, for just a moment of solidarity.

He bites into his lip to give himself a real reason for the tears threatening to spill out the corners of his eyes, trying to make himself just— just breathe. He just has to keep breathing.

The hands on his waist let go, and one grips his upper arm instead before he can think to pull away. "Come on." Keith doesn't quite resist the tug at his arm, pulling him away from the wall and back towards the middle of the room. He blinks his eyes open, as Shiro continues, "You're not going to like this either, but if you don't give me any trouble we can do this the simple way instead of making it complicated."

He's barely processed that, and where they're headed, before Shiro pulls him down onto the couch. He balks a bit, makes a sound of protest, but Shiro drags him down to lie across it and wraps that metal arm around his arms and chest with immovable strength. He squirms, pinned half on top of Shiro with his head trapped back against a shoulder, panic and desperation quickly making themselves known as the urge to _escape_ really starts to take precedence over shock and lack of understanding.

Shiro's arm tightens, driving the breath from his lungs in one hard rush. He gasps, and a hand closes over his throat, legs curling around his and rendering him almost completely immobile.

" _Listen_ ," Shiro says in his ear, and it's a sharp crack, an order so similar to the teachers at the Garrison that he can't help but stiffen up and obey. "You need to smell like me, remember? I promise this is the simplest, easiest way for that to happen. Lie still, and this _stays_ easy. Can you do that for me, Keith?"

The arm loosens just enough for him to take the breath to answer, except that he doesn't have an answer. The hand on his throat is too distracting, his breath still short and sharp until he forces himself to focus past those things.

Shiro's right. They've been through this already, and it's just like the bites. Keith has to get through it. He just has to.

"Okay," he manages. "Okay."

Shiro holds him tight for a few more long moments, but then finally eases the grip. The arm across his chest stays, but the hand on his throat lets go and the legs wound around his pull free. He’s still pressed to the length of Shiro’s body, hot and solid behind him, but Keith breathes a little easier knowing that he can at least kick or something if he needs to. He’s not sure that will get him much of anything, but it… He at least has it as an option.

There’s a flash of metal, and Keith flinches before he realizes that it’s Shiro, pulling some sort of pad free from the coat he’d thrown here what feels like hours ago. It’s held roughly in front of him, in the hand of the human arm that Shiro has trapped somewhat beneath him, and the metal fingers rise from his chest to tap it into activation. Blue energy brightens into being, into commands and symbols he doesn’t understand. He thinks he can vaguely recognize the language, as Shiro flicks through some page, as Galran. Maybe. What it is though… Without the Castle’s translation programs, or Pidge, Keith has no idea.

Shiro seems to.

“What is that?” Keith asks, after a few minutes staring at it. (Easier to stare at that than to think about any of the rest of this.)

Shiro makes a noncommittal noise first, but then follows it with, “Various files we pulled off the last ship we raided. Travel routes, communications to other captains; whatever might pinpoint another target.”

“You read Galran?”

“Sure. Some practice, mostly the Druids imprinting it into my head.” Shiro’s finger pulls whatever file is showing along, and Keith’s sort of struck by the similarity of the apparent ‘controls’ to the tablets and pads back on Earth. The universe hits him sometimes with the strangest, basic familiarity. “Even off Galra ships, a lot of aliens still use the language. Dominating race of the universe and all that; pretty much the English of space.”

Keith blinks at that comparison, but gets distracted by asking, “Druids can do that?”

Shiro closes the file by an odd, double-fingered diagonal swipe; pulls open another one. “They can do all kinds of things. You going to keep talking the entire time we’re here?”

He’s not entirely sure whether the note of warning is implied or just his imagination, but Keith remembers the constraint of the metal gag, reduced pieces still clinging to his skin even now, and his mouth shuts before he’s even finished consciously processing it. Then, once he has, he carefully presses his lips together a little more firmly. He feels trapped enough already, half-pinned to the couch and with his wrists still cuffed. Adding a gag to that? No, he’ll keep quiet instead. He’ll just… be quiet, and endure, and whenever this is over he can forget it even happened.

Keith breathes out, slowly, and lowers his head to rest against the weight of Shiro’s shoulder. He just has to endure.

**Author's Note:**

> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


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